


The Burning Question

by adreadfulidea



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Canon Divergence, Drug Use, F/M, Intoxicated Sex, M/M, Other, PWP, set during season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:31:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1759685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adreadfulidea/pseuds/adreadfulidea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I dare you to show Michael what shotgunning is.”</p><p>Stan’s eyebrows shot up in a disbelieving arch. “Really.”</p><p>“Unless you’re chicken,” Peggy said nonchalantly, eyes half closed, cutting towards where Ginsberg was seated on the floor. He still didn’t know what was going on. So he waited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Burning Question

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orangesparks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangesparks/gifts).



> "The Burning Question" is an alternate title for the film "Reefer Madness". Set between "Dark Shadows" and "The Christmas Waltz". Breaks off from canon because canon is too damn depressing.

 

He could smell the grass before he even set foot in the lounge; if he wanted company all he had to do was follow the scent. The was still a lingering haze in the air.

Peggy didn’t look stoned, though. She was alone, nursing a beer. Her shoes were tossed aside and she sat with one leg tucked under her. The skirt of her dress - dark blue with red panels, he liked that one - ballooned over her knees so he could only see a single leg hanging down, toes digging into the carpet. The whole effect was very artistic. _Woman in Repose_. Get Peggy in the right light and she looked like a painting.

Not that he would ever say that aloud.

“I thought you went home,” she said. There were old ads scattered across the table, creased and faded - they were all for ladies underthings. Playtex again. Several of the models were sporting big curly mustaches, which meant Stan was still around someplace. That and the bag of weed on the table.

“Just to get something to eat,” Ginsberg said, and picked up an ad. “Stealing from the competition?”

“Only inspiration,” she said. “Doing work for Roger again?”

“Menken’s,” said Ginsberg. “I guess they used to be a client and he’s trying to lure them back - who knows. I’m a human bagel to that guy.”

“Give him something terrible,” she said with a grin. “He won’t know the difference.”

“You want in?” he asked. “It’s an open offer.”

Peggy snorted. “No. Screw Roger.”

“Shouldn’t hold grudges,” said Ginsberg. “It’ll make you old before your time.”

“Right. Why don’t you get Don to come down here and help you with Menken’s?”

He tried glaring at her - because that wasn’t the same thing at all - but it only made her smirk at him. Fine. He didn’t want to start a fight in any case. “There any beer left in the fridge?” he asked instead, and he could see her reevaluating when he didn’t take the bait.

“No,” she said after a minute, “but Stan went on a booze run. If I knew you were coming back I’d have asked him to get more.”

He recognized it for the olive branch it was. “I’m a lightweight, don’t worry about it.”

They were haggling about bras - again - when Stan came in with a six pack.

“I hate to use this phrase, but the youth market -”

“To hell with the youth market. Older customers are the ones with the money.”

“Not anymore. Look, Stan agrees with me. Right, Stan?”

“About what?” he asked, sitting down and handing Peggy a bottle.

“Playtex,” said Ginsberg.

“God, not this again.” Stan held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Girls. You’re _both_ pretty.”

“Thanks, Switzerland,” Ginsberg said, and snagged a beer.

“He’s not here for Playtex,” Peggy said. “Roger has him on a secret mission again. Menken’s, this time.”

Stan shrugged out of his jacket, draping it over the back of the chair, and Ginsberg kept his eyes on the work in front of him. It was distracting, sometimes, the way Stan’s shoulders moved. Shot his concentration all to hell.

“This was before my time,” said Stan, scratching behind his ear, “but the grapevine indicates that Don and Rachel Menken had a thing. That true, Peggy?”

“No idea. I wasn’t noting his affairs in his appointment book. But,” she admitted, “I wouldn’t exactly be shocked.”

Ginsberg stared at her in horror. “No,” he said. “ _No_. Now I don’t have a chance. He scorched the earth for sure.”

He put his head down on his folded arms. Over before it began, he thought, because Don can’t keep his pants zipped. Fuck.

Someone patted his hair - it was Peggy, he could smell her perfume. Roses and face powder. “There, there,” she said, like she was soothing a sick child. “You did get your money upfront, right?”

 

They migrated to the couch after the beer was gone. Peggy and Stan passed a joint back and forth, sharing the herbal-sweet smoke between them, wreathed in it. Ginsberg watched Peggy tilt her head back, throat stretched out in a long line, chest rising as she inhaled, and he had to snap himself out of it. He was getting a contact high.

“I don’t know how you guys work like that,” he said.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” Stan said, and held up the joint. “Want to give it a shot?”

Ginsberg was tempted, for once. He was blocked on Menken’s and smoking might knock something loose. Peggy and Stan made it look like fun, too - and he was jealous, just a touch, because he was always left out. What the hell. The worst case scenario was that he wouldn’t like it.

“Give me that,” he said, and Stan grinned in triumph.

It didn’t go so well the first time out. He didn’t do it right, wheezing halfway through and going into a coughing fit that shot smoke out of his nose. Which Peggy found hilarious.

“Here,” Stan said, sliding closer on the couch. “Breathe in,” he instructed, putting a hand on Ginsberg’s side, “and hold it.” Ginsberg did as he was told, joint held between his teeth. The warmth of Stan’s fingers on his ribs made him feel - funny.

“Now let go,” Stan said, and when Ginsberg did he felt something, like a knotted muscle finally unwinding. But that was all, at least at first. He waited for it to kick in, doodling aimless swirls in a sketchbook. Blue and black and red and then back to blue -

“I dunno if this stuff is working,” he said. When Peggy and Stan looked blankly back at him he realised he had already said so once, and that made him let out a snort of laughter. “Holy shit. I am so _stoned_.”

He was relaxed to the soles of his shoes. His eyelids felt heavy, but he wasn’t tired. The constant thrum of low grade worry running through his head - gone. God, why had he never done this before? It was amazing. Like a good night’s rest without having to go to bed.

“I don’t have any bones,” he mused.

“ _What_ ,” said Peggy, giggling.

“Not literally, just - it’s like my brain has no bones, you know? I’m a puddle over here. Does that make sense? Am I making sense?”

“Sure,” said Peggy, and then thought about it. “No.”

And that was the funniest thing ever. They both laughed until they were doubled over, completely dissolved. “Stop it,” Ginsberg said, or at least tried to say.

“ _You_ stop,” said Peggy. She was hiccuping with laughter, red faced.

Stan watched them with bemusement. “I’m cutting you off,” he said, exhaling a plume of smoke.

 

As it turned out, no, Ginsberg could not work while he was high. Instead he sat on the floor and made paper airplanes out of magazine pages, throwing them up at the ceiling and watching them swoop across the room.

“Quit it,” Peggy said when one hit her, but she was too lazy to move or enact revenge. She and Stan were looking pretty cozy on that couch. He was rubbing her feet, which were in his lap.

“Know what we should do?” Stan said, taking a drag on the latest joint. “Play truth or dare.”

“That’s for kids,” Ginsberg said, folding the wings on his newest airplane.

Peggy smiled slow and wicked. “You think so, huh? I have an idea for a dare.”

“What?” asked Stan. He sounded game for whatever it was.

“I dare you to show Michael what shotgunning is.”

Stan’s eyebrows shot up in a disbelieving arch. “Really.”

“Unless you’re chicken,” Peggy said nonchalantly, eyes half closed, cutting towards where Ginsberg was seated on the floor. He still didn’t know what was going on. So he waited.

Stan’s eyes narrowed. A challenge had been issued, and he didn’t look like he wanted to back down. He met Peggy’s gaze and a charge passed between them. They’re going to kiss, thought Ginsberg wildly.

But they didn’t. Instead Peggy grinned broadly, sat up and moved her feet out of Stan’s lap. “Sit down,” she said to Ginsberg, patting the spot beside her.

“This better not be gross,” he complained, sitting down between them. “I’m gonna be real mad if it is.”

Stan put the joint between his lips and inhaled deeply. He held the smoke in and crooked his finger at Ginsberg, a silent command. _Come here_.

Ginsberg moved towards him, more confused than ever. What was he -

Stan leaned forward and sealed his mouth to Ginsberg’s, who sucked in a shocked breath and a lungful of smoke at the same time. He grabbed blindly at the sleeve of Stan’s shirt, heart hammering from the almost-kiss. His eyelids fluttered shut and he could feel his skin heating up with a blush. Behind him Peggy laughed, low and dirty.

Ginsberg pulled back first. Stan looked as dumbfounded as he felt. The high unfolded sweetly in his veins, or that could have been the blood rushing to his head. “Uh,” he said, voice cracking. “Peggy, I think you might be evil.”

She pressed her mouth to the back of his neck and he felt her noiseless chuckle. “I’ll make it up to you,” she said, turned his face to her, and kissed him for real. God help him, he kissed her back, opening his mouth and letting her in. He couldn’t _not_.

“Jesus fuck,” Stan said. Ginsberg had never heard that tone in his voice before - desperation. That’s what it was.

“Don’t worry,” Peggy said. “You’re next.”

She was more aggressive with him than she had been with Ginsberg. Their kiss was biting, deep - she dragged him towards her by the collar. It was like a wrestling match. Stan looked like he was having a religious experience. They were a beautiful thing to see.

Stan was breathing hard when she let him go. He looked at Ginsberg - Ginsberg looked at him -

And Stan kissed him, both hands in his hair. There was no excuse for it, it wasn’t brotherly, it was just - wet and hungry and unashamed. Ginsberg whined into his mouth. He was getting hard.

“Oh,” Peggy gasped. “Of all the times to be without a camera.”

Stan broke away. “Like hell. This isn’t for your spank bank, woman.”

“Shush,” she said. “I have an idea.”

She got them repositioned, Stan settled against the backrest of the couch and Ginsberg sitting between his legs. He could feel Stan’s erection pressing against him and was pathetically grateful; it wasn’t just a show for Peggy, it was about all of them, something for them to share.

Peggy sat on the table in front of the couch. He didn’t know why she wanted to be so far away. She opened his pants and pulled him out through the slit in his boxers. He held his breath. “Can you do something for me?” she asked, palming the head of his cock, rubbing in slow circles.

“Yes,” he said, “anything you want, _god_.”

She stopped touching him. “Show me how you do it.”

Oh. “You want me - you want me to -”

“You heard the boss lady,” Stan said, and Ginsberg could hear the grin in his voice. He wrapped an arm around Ginsberg’s waist. “She wants to see.”

Ginsberg swallowed hard. Jerking off had always been private, the scratching of a guilt-inducing itch. It never occurred to him that someone could think it was sexy.

“Go slow,” Peggy said, eyes gleaming.

He curled his fingers around his cock and tried to do just that, pumping himself at a much more gradual pace than he would choose on his own. But it wasn’t easy - her eyes were on him and he could feel Stan looking over his shoulder, down to where he was sticky with precome already, spreading slickness down the shaft on every downstroke.

Peggy was holding his knees apart. She could see everything, she wanted to, had _asked_ for it. That knowledge alone was enough to turn his face red.

“Let me help,” Stan said, and took hold of him, linking their fingers together.

It was so much better and so much worse. He was never going to last like this. Not with Stan’s grip being so firm and good. Not with the way he rubbed his thumb over the head or squeezed down gently as he stroked him, working him quicker and quicker -

“Please,” Ginsberg said, thrusting up into their joined hands. “Please - _ah_ \- I need this.”

“Yeah,” said Stan, “yeah, fuck - come on, come on -”

Ginsberg made a rough animal noise at the first spurt, hips coming off the couch entirely. Stan kept going - kept them both going - milking him until there was nothing left, until he was shivering and oversensitive and had to say stop.

He closed his eyes to get his bearings - the world was turned upside down - and Peggy kissed him softly. It grounded him while he came down, somehow. “That was perfect,” she said. “Thank you.”

Ginsberg lifted himself gingerly out of Stan’s lap. Poor guy was really straining against his fly, now, and he hadn’t brought it up once. He had to be uncomfortable.

Peggy whispered something in Stan’s ear. Ginsberg caught part of it: “I could teach him how.”

“Teach me what?” Ginsberg asked.

Peggy pulled Stan’s belt free and tugged his pants down to mid thigh. He was trying to play it cool, Ginsberg could tell, but his hands shook when he helped her get his clothes out of the way. Jeez, Ginsberg thought, getting a good look at the lump in his underwear. Stan wasn’t fucking around. But of course he had been in love with Peggy forever. Everyone knew that.

“I feel like we should be in the Waldorf,” Stan muttered, and Peggy laughed.

“I’ll tell you later,” she said at Ginsberg’s questioning look. Then she knelt down and smiled up at him, slyness all over her face. “Want to give me a hand?”

Ginsberg blinked. So that was what she wanted to teach him. He - he could do that. He could definitely do that.

“Yes,” he said, and got down there with her. Stan cursed and stared up at the ceiling like he could see the answer to all life’s mysteries written there.

Ginsberg followed her lead, licking up the side of the shaft, across the head. It was _good_ , really good - Stan tasted like clean salty skin and his hips kept twitching up in the most intriguing way. Their mouths bumped together when they were on him at the same time, and Peggy kept her hand on the nape of Ginsberg’s neck, like she wanted to feel him moving.

“Christ,” said Stan. His voice was shot. “You’re going to kill me.”

Peggy showed Ginsberg how to cover his teeth with his lips and take Stan down, and he did, as far as he could. He swallowed frantically but he was drooling all over, making his pumping hand slippery, and he whimpered in the back of his throat, unable to stop himself.

“God,” said Peggy in wonder, “Stan, _look_ at him.”

Stan rocked his hips up once before he came, going off in Ginsberg’s mouth. Ginsberg pulled off coughing, totally unprepared.

“Fuck,” he sputtered, struggling to get his breathing under control. His lips felt swollen. “Stan, you asshole.”

Stan winced, but he was laughing too. “Sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Peggy stood up and stripped off her pantyhose, discarding them in a crumpled ball on the floor. She was flushed and sweating. “Someone needs to go down on me. Right now.”

Stan did, and Ginsberg stood behind her, supporting her with one arm and using the other to hold her skirt up so that he could watch. He couldn’t see much - her white panties dangling off one ankle, the dark triangle of hair between her legs and a flash of red where she was slick and bare inside - and then Stan’s head was blocking his view. She arched her back and moaned, trying to press her thighs together, almost pulling away. They made wet, dirty sounds together, and soon she was pushing against his face, digging her nails into Ginsberg’s arm.

Her face was a revelation. Ginsberg couldn’t stop looking at her. He kissed her cheek. “Peggy, you’re gorgeous. Just fucking gorgeous.”

She screamed when she came. Good thing the office was empty. Ginsberg eased her to the floor carefully, where she kissed Stan with an adorable lack of coordination.

Stan took the joint out of the ashtray afterwards and lit it up again. They sat in a line against the couch and passed it back and forth.

“Is this a regular thing for you two?” Ginsberg asked, and waited for the answer with more investment than he should have had.

“Not for me,” Stan said. “Maybe Peggy has a ménage à trois every Friday night.”

“Of course not,” said Peggy. “This was a special occasion.”

Ginsberg smiled to himself. Good.

Peggy bit her lower lip. She looked thoughtful. “We could - this doesn’t have to be it. I’ve got the apartment to myself. Abe’s out of town.You could come home with me. If you want.”

Ginsberg felt a rush of guilt. He had completely forgotten about Abe. What did that make him and Stan - the other women? Yet he still wanted to say yes. To go home after this and go to bed alone - it was too depressing.

He caught Stan’s eye over the top of Peggy’s head. They weren’t always on the same wavelength, but for once he understood Stan perfectly. There was only one thought in either of their heads, and it was the same: fuck that guy. I’m going home with her.

“I’m in,” said Ginsberg.

 

Ginsberg fried some eggs while Peggy was in the shower. “I hope she doesn’t take too long,” he told Stan, who was making coffee. “Or these’ll get cold. Is there any orange juice?”

“No,” said Stan, looking in the fridge. “But she has apple.”

It was remarkable how comfortable the situation was. Ginsberg felt entirely at home, which he could barely say about his _actual_ home. He woke up this morning smelling like them; he didn’t want to let that feeling go ever.

They had a weekend together at most. He was trying not to think about it.

There was a knock at the door. The neighbour - she was stopping by to get some clothes that Peggy was donating to charity. “I got it,” Ginsberg said, picking up the bag.

“Here you go,” he said, opening the door with a big smile.

It was not the neighbour. It was Abe, and he looked fucking murderous. Peggy’s dress was lying on the kitchen floor because it had taken them some time to get into the bedroom last night. Ginsberg was wearing his rumpled clothes from yesterday. Stan wasn’t wearing a shirt at all.

“I forgot my keys,” Abe said, and pushed past Ginsberg into the apartment.

 

(“I leave for three days and you have a fucking _orgy_?” Abe yelled.

“You were supposed to be gone for a week,” Peggy shouted back, and that didn’t help at all.)

 

After Abe left - really left, he wasn’t ever coming back - Peggy sat in her livingroom and sulked. She was in her bathrobe and her hair was wet from the shower. Stan and Ginsberg flanked her but neither of them knew what to do. The silence was as thick as pea soup.

“At least you went out with a bang?” said Ginsberg, because somebody had to say something.

Wrong joke to make. She glared at him poisonously. “Couldn’t you have looked less guilty?”

“I _am_ guilty,” said Ginsberg, “and so are you. And Stan.”

“I don’t feel guilty,” said Stan calmly. He looked at Peggy. “Because I don’t care about Abe. And neither do you.”

“Yes, I do. He’s my boyfriend.”

“Bullshit. I _know_ you, Peggy. And you wouldn’t have brought us home with you if you gave a shit about him.”

The scowl faded from her face. “He always was too self-righteous,” she muttered, and then sighed. “But what am I supposed to do now?”

Ginsberg looked over at Stan. They had a moment of wordless understanding, like before, and -

“I have an idea,” said Ginsberg, and kissed Peggy on the lips.

 

 


End file.
